


Sick Leave

by Project0506



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, mentioned hurt, mostly comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 11:16:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506
Summary: In which Phil's sick leave is strictly enforced.





	Sick Leave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eridell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eridell/gifts).

With his neat dark suit and accountant-glasses, Coulson blended easily into the surge of office workers flowing in predetermined patterns along hallways and into the elevators at either end of the cubicle farms. Each step was timed perfectly and spaced precisely; with the grace of a dancer he whirled to the side in a trajectory that neatly routed him around the two people who'd be able to pick out that he didn't belong. The long way added an extra six minutes to his ETA: nothing he hadn't prepared for. A series of stairwells, slipping in and out of blind spots and interspaced with floor-crossing, wound him a floor above his final destination. The men's room here was sandwiched between the janitor's mop-washing/cleaning products storage and the HVAC control room. More importantly it was directly below the major cold air duct running lenthwise and down the entire building.

Phil did not grunt as he heaved himself into the duct, neatly replacing the grate behind him. He was not a small man, fit and tightly muscled but hardly anything one would consider slight. It was his shoulders, _not_ his stomach that needed some wriggle to pop past the vent ring, thank you very much. He spared a moment to pray that Clint never saw evidence of this; how the man got _his_ shoulders into vents of all sizes is a mystery no one may ever satisfactorily solve. It didn't stop him from making snide comments or, worse, sitting in a smug, smug silence over the airwaves whenever anyone else needed to use the 'Hawkeye Highway' to get from point A to point B.

It was distinctly unpleasant. That is all Phil had to say about that. And not particularly expedient, either.

A good twenty minutes later than he had estimated, Phil finally swung down into the deserted office with a huff of equal parts annoyance and relief. All he had to do now was-

...The computer was missing.

Nothing else in the room had been touched that Phil could tell, and he would know. Careful not to touch anything and to avoid the pressure sensors littered beneath the mild, inoffensive carpeting, he circled the office, ticking off everything on his mental list. The entire inventory was present and accounted for. Except the computer he came for.

In it's place was a cheery yellow sticky note.

_'When I say go the fuck home I expect you to go the fuck home.'_

The office door clicked deep and echoing. Maria peered around the crack and winced companionably. “Orders Phil. Go home.”

He was hustled out of his office like a recalcitrant child, like a green agent who didn't know their limits _thank you very much_ and needed to be monitored.

“No offense,” Jasper apologized during the Hill-Sitwell Coulson-sitting hand-off. In Phil's experience, that phrase was _always_ accompanied by something to which he should most definitely vehemently take offense. “If it was just the boss I'd be happy to sneak you your paperwork fix, you know I would. But annoying the boss is one thing, pissing off your tetchy guard-cats is something else. That's way beyond the bounds of our friendship.”

They aren't cats, Phil wanted to sigh. They are highly valuable government assets.

Clint was perched on the roof of his car glaring out at the world and baring his teeth in a rictus grin at anyone who stared at him too long. Three steps from the elevator Natasha slunk out of the shadows to pace silently at Jasper's elbow. Ten yards later, Jasper noticed. If Natasha grinned at his jump and shriek, only two people would be able to tell.

“Bells!” Jasper howled at Phil, flailing dramatically. “_Bells! _On _both of them_.” Clint did finger-guns because someone once told him it looked cool.

“Thank you for your help Jasper I can take it from here.” No one was fooled for a moment, but Jasper at least was kind enough to pretend. He patted Phil once on the elbow so very careful not to jostle his shoulder.

“Good luck,” he said and beat a quick retreat.

The next thirty five seconds were silent. Phil looked back and forth between his agents, Natasha met his gaze calmly and Clint stared somewhere over his left ear. “I'm driving,” Phil calmly informed them.

“You're really not,” Natasha replied and it wasn't a stretch to assume that she'd already stolen all of his keys and probably his distributor cap too for good measure. And Clint probably has a dart gun loaded with tranqs. There was nothing left to do than acquiesce gracefully and save at least a modicum of pride. Phil slid into the passenger seat, Clint slithered down behind the wheel and Natasha popped the hood and fiddled for a second or two, confirming all Phil's worst assumptions. He glared. She seemed terribly unphased.

The ride home was more painful than the ride in. Phil's meds were wearing off and his shoulder was beginning to remind him that it had been home to two bullets not all that long ago. By the time Clint neatly slotted Phil's cherry red car into the last parking space on the street (cutting off a yellow cab and cheerfully returning the cabbie's swears in filthy Urdu) every pothole hurt like an electric shock and every turn tugged as if trying to pull his tendons completely out. He was sweating halfway up his second-floor walk-up and though he was shadowed on either side by the silent steps of his team, both of them knew better than to offer a hand. He was Phillip J. Coulson. He would not be beat by stairs.

By the top he was good for not much.

“Stubborn fool,” Natasha sighed and _moved_.

Even if pressed, Phil couldn't recall what happened between the door of his apartment and his bed. All he knew was that one moment he was clinging fiercely to the door jam, the next he was down to his boxers and undershirt.

He squirmed.

“Sleep,” the voice on the left demanded. Phil growled.

“I have work.”

“You really don't,” Clint said, and Phil immediately imagined binders of paperwork flung from his balcony and fluttering to the street below, cell phone dropped in a pitcher, covered in water and stuffed in the freezer. Fires in the mainframe facility. Rabid lions released in video teleconference rooms. Clint would. He _would_ and Phil would have to clean it all up!

Clint wriggled until most of him was on top of everyone else. Natasha tucked her head against Phil's arm and her knees against his ribs. Phil slept, and dreamed of his agents holding governments hostage for vacation time.


End file.
